


(Poison) As Sweet As Love

by mendacium_dulce (lux_veritatis)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animal Death, M/M, author neither condones nor supports this type of relationship in real life, jugular kink, questionable undertones all around, romanticization of violence, social sabotage, throat kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2019-12-26 19:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18288455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lux_veritatis/pseuds/mendacium_dulce
Summary: Various glimpses of the wonderfully twisted ship that is Tomarry. Chapters will greatly vary in length as this'll be a collection of both, oneshots and drabbles.Chapter 3 preview:„You're my Horcrux, Harry,“ Tom said, cupping Harry's cheeks. The adoration in his voice was all but palpable, and under his intense gaze, Harry blushed.





	1. Surrender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is a gift for the wonderfully talented and amazing parselheir on tumblr, whose Tom portrayal is to die for in every way possible and who is a great person all around <3

Harry knew of the saying that the first defeat tended to sting the most, but the duel had ended far too quickly, without a single successful attack from his end. To make it worse, it'd been to an opponent who loved to humiliate with an angelic smile, and the fact that he was incapacitated by enchanted ropes and _tied up_ rather than stunned or disarmed was only further proof of it.

“Do you surrender?” the offending prefect inquired.

“Never,” Harry declared, shooting him a withering glare, though with his cheeks flushed a furious red, he couldn't imagine it to be all that threatening.

“Well, I'll have to make you then, won't I?"

For a moment, Riddle actually seemed to contemplate it, with his immaculate brow creased in a subtle frown and two elegant fingers tapping his chin as though in thought. But Harry knew it was nothing but an act, for he had seem the smug smile that had crossed his featured for the fraction of a second, seen the glint in his eyes that clearly showed his satisfaction with himself and Harry's predicament.

“Now, what to do with you...”

However, before Harry could give a voice to scathing observations, Riddle actually caressed him with the tip of his wand, murmuring those sinful words so close to his ear and letting his wand glide along his jugular in a promise of what his _lips_ could do instead, and it was far too easy to surrender to the urge to _moan_.

“Is that a yes?”

With his overloaded senses drowning out all rationale and reason, Harry could only nod.

“Good. Meet me in the Room of Requirement tonight, and we shall continue from where we left off,” Riddle decided, lips so tantalizingly close to grazing the shell of his ear, before pulling back and leaving – leaving him with a foggy brain and a heart threatening to leap from his throat as Riddle undid the binding spell as though on an afterthought.

“Bloody git!”

***

 

The Room of Requirement was a marvelous place indeed, the way it shifted into anything the one using it desired. Under Tom's command, it had been a library before, stuffed to the ceiling with every book on the Dark Arts he desired. It had also been a training room before, equipped with dummies that were a perfect copy of the living targets he normally went after.

Today, it was a bedroom – simple, but lavish – a place for lovers to indulge in one another's company in private.

Tom wouldn't comment on Harry's lack of surprise upon entering the room, for tonight, questioning him and his peculiar knowledge on Hogwarts and his person was a secondary objective.

Instead, he motioned for him to lie down, a smile forming on his lips when Harry was so eager to comply, kicking off his shoes and reclining on the soft mattress. On a bed as big, Harry couldn't have looked smaller and more vulnerable, a thought that intrigued and excited him.

“What shall I do to you?”

Tom's heart raced as, instead of giving him a verbal response, Harry bared his neck to him, eyes shut tightly and eyelids trembling in anticipation and fear alike, and he couldn't have been happier to fulfill the forbidden wish the seed of which he'd planted earlier that day.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” Tom murmured reassuringly, then finally lowered his lips to the base of Harry's neck, planting the first of many kisses upon tender skin. There was something he'd been itching to try, and if Tom wanted something, he would stop at nothing to obtain it.

Slowly, he let his mouth glide higher, leaving a trail of quick kisses behind before finally, they reached the center of Harry's throat, reveling in the sensation of Harry's pulse picking up in speed against his lips. And oh, how frantically Harry's heart was beating – like the heart of a cornered deer in the face of a barrel, like the fluttering of a hummingbird's wings – so fragile and delicate, even more so once he could feel Harry shiver underneath him. But Tom wanted more, wanted to gently _devour_ the one who held a piece of his soul, until he was truly _his_.

“Do you trust me?” He heard himself ask, yet before Harry could give him even a nonverbal response, he had already tilted Harry's head to the side and scraped his teeth along Harry's jugular, relishing the delightfully sharp intake of breath that followed, how Harry's heart was beating so fast it was threatening to burst inside his ribcage – a sight Tom couldn't resist imagining vividly, with its vibrant reds splattering across the pristine white of his lover's ribs, across his own robes, like a canvas waiting to be filled and painted on.

“Tom, I-”

“Shhh, it's alright,” he soothed, keeping his tone as gentle as possible as he repeated, “I'm not going to hurt you.”

The words were murmured against tender skin, and once again, he could feel Harry shiver right against his lips, all but making him feel giddy as he alternated careful nips and kisses and gentle scraping, greedily drinking in the extraordinary sounds that were spilling from Harry's lips – moans and whimpers alternated by wistful sighs – and it was the contrast between the two extremes that made the tune so much more pleasant to his ears, so much more _enticing_.

“Tom... Tom..., _please_ , I can't-”

And the way he all but _chanted_ his name, like Tom was deity and demon at once whereas Harry was his chosen mortal, a sacrificial lamb scurrying into his arms on its own will, surrendering any semblance of pride and dignity, letting it make way for complete submission...

The more sinister part of Tom's that was coming to the surface couldn't help but revel in the power he held over Harry, so much he could feel the first subtle cracks to form on his immaculate mask as he thought of how _easy_ it'd be to extinguish his Harry's life here and now, sink his teeth into the vulnerable veins bared to him so willingly, and the sensation was _exhilarating_.

And so, he went back to kissing, sucking, tasting, undoing Harry without touching his private parts even once, making him drown in utter bliss. It was an accomplishment he couldn't help but smirk at, smirk against Harry's racing pulse, eliciting more moans and shivers only he could coax from him.

Truly, Harry was his and his _alone_ , and Tom was determined to not let anyone lay a single finger on him as he shattered and mended him.


	2. Not quite Jealousy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This oneshot is (again) dedicated to the wonderful parselheir on tumblr, but also to Deb aka the very first person to ever leave me a review. I hope you enjoy this 'jealous' Tom.
> 
> In addition to that, I'd like to thank my beloved Senpai Ascended_Sleepers for being the best and most patient beta and writing teacher ever - as well as Tai, who is not on this site, for helping me find a name for the Gryffindor girl <3 I'm immensely grateful to both of you <3
> 
> For the sake of simplicity, I will not elaborate on how Harry arrived in Tom's time and why as my preferred take on this is rather complicated and better suited for a piece that is actually centered around this topic. The false name he has chosen in this oneshot is Harry Evans and the House he's been sorted into for the purpose of exposing and stopping Tom is Slytherin.

To Harry, there was nothing quite like flying, nothing quite like the sharp wind to tussle his messy hair in a rough caress, stroke his cheeks with blunt claws. Up in the air, all of his problems seemed so remarkably small like the people reduced to mere dots and the immense Forbidden Forest that was suddenly becoming overseeable as he further gained in altitude. More than anything, he felt invincible like a fish who had finally found its way to its native waters, like a bird that was finally freed from its restricting cage.

As his heart hammered in his chest, reminding him that he was alive and that he was free and his cheeks were flushed in a vibrant color, he couldn't suppress the shout of utter joy so eager to spill from wind-chapped lips, and he couldn't have felt lighter and more lighthearted.

It didn't even matter than his broomstick wasn't nearly as fast and agile as his trusted Firebolt, that by the time his feet touched the ground, the weight on his shoulders would seem twice as heavy, and so, he forgot, relieving his restless mind of its obligation to worry and think. Instead, he simply existed, one with the wind and the broomstick to carry him.

“Enjoying yourself?” a brash voice called out to him, and had it not been for his extensive training, he would've given an abrupt start, one that may have caused him to fall. As he looked down, all he could see from his current altitude was red hair and a red uniform, clearly marking the one in question a member of the Gryffindor team.

“What's wrong? Cat got your tongue? Or do you not talk to others unless they're a fellow snake?” The girl called out again when he didn't respond right away and this time, he shook himself out of his stupor and landed next to her in a reckless, Gryffindoresque maneuver.

“No. I just wasn't expecting an oversized kitten to willingly approach a venomous snake,” he snarked back, lips quirked up in a cocky smirk.

“Careful there, little grass snake. You sure you want to provoke a hungry lioness, who could swallow you in a single bite?”

And just like that, the ice was broken, and the two of them shared a hearty laugh.

“I'm Harry. Harry Evans,” he said, extending his hand to the redheaded girl, who immediately shook it with a big smile, her grip confident and firm.

“Charlotte Finley, but call me Charlotte. Glad to meet a fellow player who also sees the House divide for the load of dung it is. Want to have a friendly match? Seeker against seeker?”

“Seeker? How did you realize?”  
  
“It's the way you were so quick to change directions when you landed,” she explained, practically brimming with satisfaction at her correct deduction. “That and your agility in general. It would've been wasted on a Chaser. Or a Beater. Of course, Keepers need to possess those qualities too, but you don't have the build of one, meaning all that's left is the position of the Seeker. Impressed?”

“Yeah, that was brilliant reasoning,” Harry easily admitted, grin still on his face. “And you bet I'll take you on! On the count of ten?”

“On the count of ten. You ready to lose, little grass snake?”

“Never.”

As the two of them chased after the elusive Snitch, the air was filled with joyous laughter.

***

By now, Harry and Charlotte were meeting up multiple times a week, sometimes on the Quidditch pitch, sometimes in the Gryffindor Common Room much to the chagrin of some of the other lions, who, despite his visible disdain of his own Housemates, had chosen to remain distrustful of Harry.

While the rejection of his Housemates in spirit stung at first, he soon couldn't bring himself to care. For the first time since his arrival in Tom Riddle's time, he was at home again, at the place he truly belonged, and the stuffed armchairs couldn't have been more comfortable, the tones of crimson and gold more inviting.

However, most of it was thanks to Charlotte's vibrant personality, her quick wit, and genuine warmth she radiated.

As it turned out, the two of them had even more in common than either of them had expected, and it was within weeks that a wonderful friendship began to blossom.

“So, what do you say,” Charlotte began after another intense shared training session on the Quidditch pitch. “A weekly cross-team practice with others like us? I'm sure there more who don't see why we can't be friends just cause our Houses are different. Isn't it enough that the Muggles are waging war for silly reasons like nationality and faith? Even our _national_ Quidditch teams are hosting friendly matches just to take a clear stance against this. To make it clear that sports and politics should always remain separate and that if the stupid politicians want to divide us, it's up to us sportsmen to combat this. To stand as a united front.”

As Harry listened to Charlotte's passionate speech, he couldn't help but be impressed, and without prior reflection on what he was about to do, he enthusiastically grabbed her hand, clasping it between his own hands and not noticing the faint blush to color her cheeks at the contact.

“I'll help you.” The words were just as undeliberated, just as rash, and it was as though Harry had completely forgotten about his true objective of exposing Riddle as the monster he was, shatter his mask once and for all, and stop him before he could kill any of his loved ones.

At the same time, it was always good to have allies – people who'd believe him if he told them about Riddle's true colors, maybe even help him spy on him, keep track of his every action. And unlike Slytherin, the other Houses weren't a completely lost cause, for while most of the other students, too, appeared to idolize the handsome prefect and the one favored to become the next head boy, only the Serpent House was completely under his thumb as of yet. It might still be possible to sway them.

Besides, as long as they only did spy work for Harry and left the actual act of exposing Riddle to him, none of them would be put in any real danger, and it was far too easy to rationalize away his worries about letting his passionate nature sidetrack him.

“Wonderful!” the cheerful voice of Charlotte, who'd in the meantime regained her composure, ripped him from his thoughts. “Leave it to me to round up some people. But in exchange, I want you to give us some pointers. Your technique is brilliant! And I'm positive that with your help, all of us can become better players!”

“Deal!” Harry agreed, though this time, it was his turn to blush a little and scratch the back of his neck in response to such high praise. It'd been a while since one of the other students had last directed a kind word at him – at least not with genuine intentions – and so, he drank in the praise like a man dying of thirst, who would attempt to catch mere _droplets_ of water with his tongue.

Right before they parted ways that day, Harry pulled Charlotte into a friendly hug.

***

It'd been a while since Harry had last had this much fun playing Quidditch. He'd always enjoyed the Gryffindor team's practice sessions immensely, but with so many different tactics on the same pitch, so many different techniques for him to study and observe, Harry wouldn't have been surprised, had someone told him he'd died and entered paradise itself.  
  
Right after correcting a younger Ravenclaw's posture, an older Ravenclaw taught him how to dodge a Bludger more efficiently, giving him a formula to calculate the minimum amount of movement necessary to dodge with the maximum probability of success that would've never occurred to him in his most vivid dreams.

The Hufflepuff students that had chosen to participate, on the other hand, taught him and the others about true team play, how to best rely on one's teammates' strength and how to best make up for their weaknesses.

The atmosphere was joyous and lighthearted, yet everyone was productive and motivated as they practiced and improved, and there wasn't a single person not content with Harry and Charlotte's decision to not invite the scheming Slytherin team members.

However, there was some truth to the saying of how rumors weren't so different from pebbles cast on the water surface. While the circles created wouldn't be picked up by many at the beginning, the process would gain momentum rapidly the very moment they grew wider and wider, and it had only been a week when the inevitable occurred in the form of Cerbus, the Slytherin team captain, and Bricks and Barracus, the Slytherin beaters, appearing on the pitch.

“I'm deeply hurt, Evans,” Cerbus exclaimed in mock offense. “How could you start something like that without inviting your own team? Thought we wouldn't want to join in on the fun?”

“Well, sorry about that.” Harry deadpanned, mentally saying goodbye to the days of fun and peace. “Didn't think you'd want to practice with those of us you consider beneath you.”

“No need to be so acerbic. Maybe we learned from our mistakes and want to become better sportsmen.”

“Sure. And the grass is blue, and the sky is green. I don't believe a single word of what you-”

“Wait, Harry!” It was Charlotte who interrupted him, then turned to the Slytherin captain and his two players. “You want a second chance, I'll give you one. But _one_ instance of your previous behavior and you're no longer welcome here.”

“Thanks, Finley. Very generous of you. We'll be sure to not let you down.”

There were no incidents that day, yet Harry couldn't shake off the feeling that something was about to go terribly wrong.

“Are you sure that was the right decision?” he later asked his friend. “I trust those venomous snakes as far as I can throw them, and you know I'm more of the scrawny sort.”

His words got a chuckle out of Charlotte. “You sure like to forget that you, too, are a snake. And I know that you dislike your prefect, but so he. Can we really overcome Sorting-based prejudices by excluding a House? Is that what real sportsmanship looks like?”

“Can't say you don't have a point. It's just... I know what they're like. What they're _actually_ like when they think no one's looking. They're always scheming something.”

“And you are not? Look, Harry. Everyone finds it suspicious that you're so hostile to Riddle, when he's been nothing but kind to you. And we're all wondering why, yet we're being courteous and respecting your privacy. Are you trying to tell me you're up to no good as well? Or can you admit that not every secret has to be of a malicious nature?”

The mere thought of being lumped together with the rest of his vile House, of having his self-imposed mission compared with his Housemates' foul scheming, made Harry's stomach churn, yet as much as he loathed himself for it, he was now Slytherin enough to recognize the losing battle for what it was, and so, he bit his tongue and remained quiet.

And, in fact, Cerbus and the two Beaters he'd brought were on impeccable behavior, even helping out younger players and giving them pointers whenever they could. In addition to that, while they'd yet to go against Riddle's word, they'd never been as bad as his sycophants. It was after two weeks that Harry began to think that perhaps, they'd indeed had a change of heart, that simply being away from Riddle's bad influence was enough for them to turn into better versions of themselves and when Charlotte gave him an encouraging smile upon witnessing one of the Slytherin Beaters correct a young Gryffindor girl's grip on her bat one day, he returned it.

Maybe Charlotte _had_ been right after all.

***

He hadn't expected to be this determined to see Slytherin win – and against his true House of all other teams – but as Harry pushed off the ground at the sound of the referee's whistle, his eyes immediately darted around to look for the Golden Snitch, his movements fast and erratic so as to not reveal the his thought patterns to Charlotte, who by now was intimately familiar with his techniques and maneuvers as a _Gryffindor_. It was only appropriate that he acted as a Slytherin today, letting boldness make way for deception and diversion tactics.

And, in fact, when he finally spotted the Golden Snitch near the Hufflepuff stands, Charlotte had no clue he was already approaching it. The Slytherin audience was in uproar, cheering him on as he made a reckless dive for the fickle little orb.

However, his fingers had barely brushed it when the Slytherins' chanting was drowned out by shocked gasps and the occasional scream from the other stands, and when Harry's head whipped around, he almost lost his grasp and fell off his broomstick.

There was a girl lying on the ground. The rest of the Gryffindor team had stopped playing and surrounded her while the Slytherin team kept scoring one goal after another – an easy feat with the Gryffindor keeper away from his post. Completely forgetting about the Snitch, Harry landed in a quick diving maneuver to take a closer look at the girl he quickly recognized as the ace among the entirety of Hogwarts' players.

Not a single sob escaped her bloodied lips, but from her swollen eyes, tears were leaking in a continuous stream. Her gaze was directed to her right hand that was bent at the oddest angle, sharp white splinters protruding from an open wound. It was with a gasp that Harry realized that her very bones had been shattered. The other Gryffindor players looked as though they were about to throw up. At least half of them were injured themselves, albeit to a lesser degree.

Had the prodigy Chaser been a Muggle, the injury might have been severe enough for her to never be able to play again.

Still, even without the Muggle limitations in the treatment of injuries, the Quidditch rules clearly stated that the game was not to be stopped unless the Snitch was caught, and no outsider was to step on the pitch until it happened. Technically, a player could be bleeding to death and no one'd be allowed to help, and by the way teachers and medical staff alike made no move to approach the injured girl, Harry was afraid, they would simply wait for it to happen.

“Quick! Catch the Snitch and end the game!” he cried, pulling Charlotte out of her shocked daze. “It's between the Ravenclaw and the Hufflepuff stands!”

How he had spotted the Snitch so quickly for the second time, he didn't know. Perhaps it was the urgency of the situation and a good dose of adrenaline. Or maybe it'd been easier to narrow down its position due to having seen where it'd been previously. Whichever it was, Harry couldn't bring himself to care as he remounted his broomstick and pushed off the ground.

The young Chaser was in excruciating pain and losing blood, and the only way to help her was for  
one of them to catch the Snitch. Seeing that Charlotte was already closer to the Snitch's position, he quickly approached from the other side, cutting off the escape routes it was the most likely to take, his heart clamoring in his chest as he waited for the announcement that could save the girl.

“Finley's caught the Snitch! But Slytherin wins with a total score of 190!”

“Take her to the Hospital Wing! _Hurry up!_ ”

***

“I should've listened to you, Harry. This isn't your fault.”

“It's not your fault either. No one could've expected them to do that.”

Yet according to everyone else, they should both have. And it was only after Professor Dumbledore's booming voice commanded them to be silent that the increasingly aggressive accusations began to die down, only stopping when Harry, Charlotte, and Cerbus were physically removed from the scene and escorted to two different offices minutes later – Charlotte and the Slytherin captain to the headmaster's, Harry to Professor Dumbledore's.

“First of all, take a deep breath. Once you've calmed yourself a little, I'd like you to tell me what happened.”  
  
Dumbledore's voice may have been kind in Harry's time, but having known his headmaster for more than five years, Harry could detect an edge that hadn't been present before, and the more he told him about the events that had transpired, the less subtle his frown became.

“There's a certain list that has been spotted in the Slytherin Common Room. Is there anything you know about it?”

“I don't. Know about the list, that is. What list are you talking about, Sir?”

Wordlessly, Dumbledore slid a sheet of parchment across the table, and Harry's heart came to an abrupt halt as he recognized his own messy handwriting.

“It's not good to lie. Now, again, would you be so kind and tell me what truly happened? Why did you write something like this?”

“But Professor Dumbledore, I- I know I this might sound strange to you, but I've never even seen that list. Nor do I know what's written on it.”  
  
“Very well. You may take a closer look at it, then,” Dumbledore said, not sounding like he believed him.  
  
As Harry started reading the list, his stomach sank, and he had to put his every effort into keeping his hands steady and his vision focused. On the sheet of paper, there was a list of every player, who had attended Charlotte and his cross-team practice sessions along with a detailed description of each player's strengths and an even more detailed description of each player's weaknesses. But what really shocked him to the core were the footnotes about which spots the Beaters needed to aim for to impair their ability to keep playing – physically and mentally. It said that in the case of the young Gryffindor Chaser, who'd been injured so horribly, a single traumatizing injury might be enough for her to never return to the pitch.

Minutes passed, and Harry remained silent, his breathing rapid and shallow.

“I must apologize, my dear boy. It seems I have wrongly suspected you. You may leave.”  
  
Technically, Harry's conversation with Dumbledore should've been the end of it. Unfortunately, however, rumors weren't as easy to eradicate as logic would have dictated – especially not when the Slytherin team captain himself was bragging about having used “Harry's list” in the Common Room, about how skillfully he'd avoided any form of punishment from the headmaster by exploiting Dippet's sympathetic nature to make his lies seem more believable. The rest of the team had cheered for him, first and foremost the two Beaters who had acted on his orders.

“And it's you we have to thank for that victory, Evans. Cause that's what you wrote that list for, right? Well done, well done.”

It was then that Harry lost any remainder of his calm. Storming up to Cerbus, he grabbed him by the front of his shirt and shook him, though he was practically itching to move his hands higher and press them down around his throat.

“How _dare_ you! How _dare_ you, you bloody-”

As Bricks and Barracus pulled him away and Cerbus recovered far too easily, he could still hear the sound of their derisive laughter.

And on the very next day, another incident occurred. It was a small event amidst news on the most recent bombings and on Grindelwald's continuous advancement, but to the ones affected, a world had shattered into pieces. There were only hushed whispers, of course, for the deed had been so vile, so gruesome not even its victims had been allowed to take a look at the scene.

Apparently, seven owls had been intercepted in the middle of fulfilling their task – intercepted and mangled and killed – and they were only recognizable by the letters they'd carried. The letters were all addressed to the same person.

Alex, Charlotte's owl, was among them.

***

By now, Harry was alone again, and having run out of distractions from his original objective, he went back to stalking Riddle as much as he could without his target suspecting him.

From the distance, all he could see was Charlotte's kneeling form and hear muffled sobs and a most hated voice. He quickly sneaked closer to the pair, so he could intervene, should Riddle do anything to worsen Charlotte's torment. What he happened upon, however, was the exact opposite.  
Instead of further cornering Charlotte, who was already on the ground, Tom Riddle was crouching before her, both hands on Charlotte's shoulders, as he declared fervently, “Rest assured, Miss Finley. I'm well aware that none of this is your fault, and I apologize for my failure to keep my Housemates in line. I shall personally bring the one responsible to justice. It won't do to blame yourself when you were only trying to bring about some change, Miss Finley. You were trying to be a visionary and that alone is admirable.”

Riddle's tone was firm, but gentle, and as Charlotte leaned forward to accept the gesture that wasn't quite an embrace and closed her eyes, what Harry felt was a disconcerting blend of anger, sadness, and envy.

Charlotte had never cried in front of him before and she'd never allowed him to comfort her.

Harry couldn't avert his eyes as the pair remained in the same position until finally, Charlotte's sobs died down and her shoulders ceased to tremble. The entire time, Riddle's expression hadn't betrayed a sliver of discomfort at the uncomfortable way he'd been bending his knees to be on an eye-level with his friend.

“Will you be alright?”

“Yes.  _Thank you_ , Riddle.”

As the two of them parted ways, Harry's decision fell on tailing Riddle, who promptly made his way to the Slytherin Common room. His strides were long and confident and difficult for Harry to keep up with, and by the time Harry caught up to the Slytherin prefect and concealed his presence, the conversation had already commenced.

“But- But I thought you were in on Evans' plan. That you  _wanted_  us to use that list.”

This time, there was no way for him to directly observe Riddle, but from the complete fear in his interlocutor's – Cerbus's – voice, there was no real need to.

“I recall telling the lot of you to  _keep your toes in line._ ”

“Wha- What about Evans, then? He- he's the one who-”

“ _No_   _one_  knows whether he's the author of that list. He may as well have been made a scapegoat for tarnishing the reputation of our noble House. The list itself may have been a trap. And you fell right into it.”

“I... I'm sorry, Riddle. I really am.”

“Twenty points. That's the maximum amount I'm authorized to take from a single student. I'll be taking it from each of you. You, on the other hand, will accompany me to Headmaster Dippet's office right away. If you only  _think_  of lying, you'll regret the day you became a member of  _my_  House.”

Multiple shivers went down Harry's spine at how  _icy_  Riddle's tone was, and when the two of them left the room, moments passed until he dared to leave his hiding place. At the same time, he begrudgingly admired the way he'd acted even if it meant to reduce his own House's chances at winning the Cup. Rotten to the core as he was, he couldn't have been closer to Harry's image of an ideal prefect in that moment.

***

Three days later, the culprit confessed to his sins, accepting the punishment of being relieved of his post as the team captain in addition to the House Points Riddle had deducted and detention with Professor Dumbledore, the least favorite teacher of all Slytherins alike. No one found out what had happened to the owls.

Harry and Charlotte, on the other hand, were the target of the school's scorn just the same – Charlotte for being naïve enough to not see through Cerbus's true intentions and Harry for not keeping his Housemates in check. The latter part was a lie, of course. By now, simply being a Slytherin was enough to be shunned and despised by the other Houses, and while this had already been the case before, the prejudices, justified or not, were now twice as vicious and the House divide itself was twice as great.

Harry was fully prepared to bear the consequences of his oversight and to make up for it, but it came as a surprise to him that Charlotte had completely distanced herself from him as well as her other friends.

Vibrant and sociable before, his best friend in Tom Riddle's time had withdrawn into her shell completely, speaking to no one but her teachers, leaving her beloved Quidditch team without thinking about it twice, and walking with her head bowed and her shoulders hunched.

Weeks passed, and it was as though she had never known Harry, as though the memories they'd made together didn't amount to anything. It was as though they hadn't been friends in the first place, and no matter how much Harry pleaded and tried to reason with her, her behavior didn't change.

It was as though everything she'd been had been shattered into unrecognizable pieces – pieces that were slipping through Harry's hands like the finest of sand – and it was losing her that hurt the most about being stranded in a different era completely on his own.

Still, he told himself to grit his teeth and bear the sensation of a sharp knife twisting and turning in his chest before pulling out and stabbing him again. And again. And again – until all that was left was a constant dull pain that was slowly suffocating him.

If he'd had any tears left, he'd have long shed them.

Harry'd been used to this before, used to being unwanted and alone. He'd simply have to get used to it a second time. And a third.

 _'But that was before I knew what affection felt like,'_  a nagging voice at the back of his head protested. ' _Is that even possible to forget?'_  More importantly, did he  _want_  to?

He couldn't imagine a life without cherished memories of his loved ones, even if they no longer sustained him.

As he sat on a bench alone, there was no wind to smooth through his hair, caressing him like a _friend_ would, and even the birds had already migrated to the south and left him behind. Then he realized that, unless there was a way for him to return to his own time, not even Hogwarts would be his home anymore.

  
“May I sit next to you?” Riddle's smooth voice interrupted his increasingly depressing thoughts and for once, he was grateful for the distraction.

“...Do what you want,” he replied, shifting a little, so there was enough space for both of them, and this time, there was no trace of the bitterness he'd usually make a point of directing at Tom Riddle.

“Are you alright, Evans? If such were my intention, I'd be able to see the raincloud over your head from miles away.”  
  
“I'm fine,” Harry said curtly, inwardly wincing at the complete lack of conviction in his tone.

“Would you like to talk about it? It's painfully obvious that the one you're really trying to convince of these words is you.” It was clear that Riddle had seen through his act, for there was now a subtle frown to mar his handsome features.

“Not really. It's something I can't put into words,” he lied, not sure if Riddle was convinced, and suddenly, he was afraid he would leave after this, leave him to himself and his increasing loneliness.

However, a single hand on Harry's shoulder was enough to elicit a wistful sigh, to erase his every worry, and before he could prevent it from happening, his body was already leaning against Tom Riddle on its own volition.

“Perhaps you simply need a shoulder, then,” Riddle observed kindly, his hold on Harry tightening slightly and his other hand reaching up to pet his hair, and his movements were slow and soothing.

“Yeah, that'd be nice...”

As he closed his eyes and let himself fall into Riddle's caresses, he couldn't help but think that it had to be the House Slytherin itself that had corrupted Tom Riddle to this extent and given birth to the monster that was Lord Voldemort. Perhaps, he, too, only needed someone to offer understanding and comfort, to like him for the person he was rather than his immense skills and accomplishments, to show him that there was still another path.

Perhaps Harry himself could be that person.

***

He hadn't expected it to be so easy to fall into routine and yet, it'd taken them less than a month to grow completely accustomed to one another's presence in their life. They were lounging in the Slytherin Common Room, Harry having made himself comfortable on Tom's lap, with his lover's arms wrapped loosely around him as it had been his turn to tell a story.

“...And so, the three of you suspected Snape because he 'looked mean, spoke mean, acted mean'.”

“Yeah, basically,” Harry confirmed, and his cheeks burned at the implications concealed in Tom's words.

“Harry, it's the silver-tongued you ought to be careful around. Those with a mask so immaculate one could never surmise their genuine thoughts – people capable of making the vilest act appear like an accident, of directing all suspicion and blame to people  _like_  Professor Snape.”

“People like you, then,” Harry observed, and Tom smiled.

“Yes. But you know I would never harm you, my soul. You're  _mine_ , Harry. It won't do if you break. And hell will freeze over before I let anyone else harm you.”

As Tom tightened his hold on him and pressed a firm kiss to the lightning bolt scar on his forehead, Harry couldn't have felt any safer.

***

There was something elegant about the art of hunting, about the art of making one's prey scurry towards its doom all but willingly – like a deer baring its very heart for the bullet to pierce, like a bird leaning into the hand that would break its glass-boned neck.

All one had to do was to isolate it from the rest of its herd, slowly depriving it of the companionship and nourishment that sustained it, until it was completely vulnerable to the hounds that would drag it from its hiding place and before the hunter's feet, attracted by the delicious scent of blood and fear.

No skilled hunter would chase after his prey like the hounds he had mastered to command, for he'd acquired the patience to wait until his prey was so weakened and mangled, death itself had become preferable to the torment he inflicted through hands not his own.

Whenever Tom took aim and pulled the trigger, it was only once.


	3. My Horcrux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This drabble is dedicated to lightning_boi, who's an amazing person and incredibly fun to talk to <3
> 
> Big thanks to Ascended_Sleepers for looking over it for me <3

„You're my Horcrux, Harry,“ Tom said, cupping Harry's cheeks. The adoration in his voice was all but palpable, and under his intense gaze, Harry blushed.

“Wha- what's that?” Harry stammered, clearly confused.

“My Horcrux,” Tom repeated, not at all impatient.

He hadn't expected the old fool to teach Harry about Horcruxes, for such fine art was beyond the likes of him, and so, he explained, leaving out no detail of the gruesome process that resulted in the splitting of one's very _soul_ and the attainment of immortality.

He spoke of his plans to create seven of them in total – plans his future self had already realized with the exception of Harry, who wasn't an intentional Horcrux, but an accidental one.

“You're no accident to me, however,” Tom soothed, stroking Harry's cheekbones with his thumbs. “You're a treasure, my soul – _my_ treasure. And by traversing time itself to be with me, you have ensured that I'm no longer forced to sacrifice my sanity for what I'm trying to accomplish.”

Harry, however, appeared to have stopped listening from a certain point, for he merely stared at him with his eyes wide in shock.

“So it was my fault that he survived,” he said quietly, and his voice was close to cracking. “My fault he'll be able to return over and over again.”

“While your being his Horcrux may have certainly contributed to it, there are Horcruxes other than you if my suspicions are correct. I'm fairly certain there are other items tethering him to the mortal realm.”

Harry's gaze was empty when he sank to his knees, and his shoulders started to tremble – slightly at first before their tremors increased in intensity, and he was shaking like a leaf.

“That still doesn't change anything. Don't you understand? He's my parents' murderer. And I'm keeping him alive.” This time, his voice did crack, and slowly – because he was visibly fighting them – tears welled up in his gorgeous green eyes before trickling down his cheeks and chin.

For a moment, Tom merely looked at him, drinking in the sight of _his_ Harry shattering so beautifully. It was a sight that excited his dark blood, made it sing with delight and rapture.  
  
Then he crossed the distance between them, gathering Harry into his arms, and the corner of his lips quirked up when Harry clung to him and started sobbing into the crook of his neck.

“I'm positive there is a way to vanquish him,” Tom murmured with his hands massaging small circles into Harry's back and shoulder blades until his sobs subsided. “And I shall keep looking for it tirelessly."

“But-”  
  
“Hush. Don't worry your head over it. Voldemort is my responsibility, not yours.”

Placing his hands on Harry's shoulders, Tom guided him back gently, so he could look him in the eyes. Whereas they had been dull and lifeless before, they had regained their former vibrancy, yet there was still a trail of tears leaking from them.

Removing Harry's glasses, he pressed his lips to the tender skin underneath his left eye, kissing away all traces of moisture before moving to his right eye to do the same, and Harry's tears were sweeter than nectar, sweeter than ambrosia.

It was a taste that excited his dark blood, made it sing with delight and rapture.

It was a taste he could easily grow addicted to.


End file.
